Out of the West

The thunder had shoved from sleep What would the soul’s anchor seem: So deep and falling men’s fears are When eyes no buoyancy provide. The trees, conspiratorially hissing, Exhorted, it seemed, the angry Masses of air that I knew now the Storm that was early rumored in wind. The heavy slugs of rain tore Open the flesh of the ground and Mud ran everywhere, and me, In some hotel room, by kisses Gunned down. Yes, I had seen all this early In dark battalions westward Mounting who had become so Long impending, familiar, death Grew beautiful. These things come out of The West, where late it becomes So red, so full, that the onset Of night is full-well assumed, Received courteously.